The man stood in front of a crowded coffee shop and said, “This is a song.”
He began to sing.
“I’m more alternative than you
I’m more alternative than you
No one can tell me what to do
You aren’t going to play the blues
You’re not hip less you do what I do
I’m more alternative than you
I am driving faster than you
I am taking more beer than you
I am funnier, it’s true
I am more alternative than you
It’s true”
And they sat watching, ill fated like it was a metaphor of some zenith, like the sixth thing that he had stated to not be true. And he could not speak, there was little for him. He stole a grass figure and we never wanted margarine. Taking precautions with the little mixed one that dodged his last shot and took mindful mistakes to pass.
He liked cigarettes, as if they were his only friend. The mask was an idle one, figuring that he had spend at least ten years buying cigarettes every day and wondering what he would have bought instead. Everyone around him didn’t like the state he was in and it was no wonder. The smoke rose to the ceiling, like his spirit once did.
“She feels very nice on my lips,” he suggested, “Giving me a feeling that I live. And she will never leave me, not like you did.” Surrounding him were people he mistook for the toxic fog of war, the smoke held him paranoid. Once he was back on his feet he wasn’t going to fall down anymore. He saw her wish float to the ceiling like it would help her find the door.
The ignorance was from where they came, regarding the difference they used to make. It was a lifetime in a frozen lake, carelessly leaving him in a different state. His lifestyle was catching up, cigarettes and empty cups. His habits had to change. It all depended whether these people were his friends. He had nowhere else to go, so he asked for a little of that blue eyed soul.
And depressing a nation of media whores, Jon Pelletier sat watching the waves. As he looked towards the moon, the last dying breathes of light exhausted over the horizon. It is almost half real sometimes, and apparently here he was. Jon came searching for a new life and had finally come to realize the one that he had.
Barely able to connect, Jon reached into his open chest. Streets had raised the fire and accounted tales of the west. He sometimes wondered if anyone would ever read all the books he had written. It is the unbreakable kind, not the professional stuff like I had used. “Christ the crook, at least we are all naked.” Grace, and have you marched for him yet, sir? Wide eyed my third was blind, any reason for my old blank mind. You are too kind. I give what’s mine. None to see through truth, through gold, when wealth, power and money is his only goal. It leaves me crooked, broken and shamed, not willing to learn but pointing out blame. This should not be my name.
Why is everything yellow? We can’t see through the green. I’ll look out for my brothers, it should be all the peace I ever need. Yet I feel I should ask, but you are too kind. So I have given away what’s mine.
